Chapter One
MacCleal Castle, Scotland
Mairi sweated asshe pulled molten glass into the shape of a swan. It was part of the MacAdaidh crest, for all that she was thought of as a MacCleal now, and she worked hard to fashion a stopper for the perfume bottle she’d made an hour ago.
She made a horrible botch of it.
Disgusted, she threw it into the rubbish bucket. The crash as the glass splintered made her wince. It was the sound of failure, and she was none too pleased with the sensation. Especially since that pit-of-the-stomach knot had been part of her life for a month now, and she was right tired of it.
Her father, the master glassmaker here, looked over at the sound, his brows raised in question. As was their custom, she said nothing. He nodded as if he understood, then went back to blowing another bottle for MacCleal whisky. She would have gone back to work as well if not for another failure walking their way.
Liam MacCleal and his new wife Lady Clara approached, looking grim. Well, Liam looked grim. His wife looked distracted as she worried at her lower lip. She held a letter in her hand and was no doubt figuring some advanced mathematical computation in her head, usually as it pertained to plumbing. They were re-building the old bath house and the lady was instrumental in calculating the waterworks.
The sight of them holding hands stung Mairi’s pride. She’d been the one destined to marry Liam—or so she’d been told since birth—and to see him now so happy with his new bride hurt. But no more so than seeing Connall bringing up the rear of the little party.
Connall, the future Duke of Aberbeag, looked like a god on this hot afternoon. He wore little beyond his clan tartan, and his golden hair waved over tawny skin on his very broad chest. She’d known the man since childhood, and he’d smiled like he knew her every secret. Not just hers, but everyone’s, and damn it, she was woman enough to see how very appealing he was with his gorgeous muscle and confident smile.
She was also smart enough to know that his presence beside Liam’s scowl and Clara’s distraction meant no good at all for her. Then he made it worse by laughing at her.
“Lord, Mairi, you’d think someone’d just killed yer pet cat. No need to scowl on such a fine day.”
“It’s hot as blazes today,” she retorted. “And you’ve not one idea about my cat.”
He raised his hand. “Then come on out of that oven there and tell me about yer sweet puss.”
She didn’t have a cat, and well he knew it. There were cats and dogs aplenty about the MacCleal castle, and she’d cared for many of them. But she was no longer chatelaine, and so there were no animals for her to tend, no tasks for her to complete, and no reason to talk to Connall at all.
She pointedly turned her shoulder to the arrogant man and glared at Liam. “And what’s the problem then? One that requires the three of you to give me the news.”
“Ach, Mairi,” her father said as he set his exquisite glass bottle to cool. Lord, he made it look so easy. “Why must ye always assume the worst?”
Experience? Liam’s face? Even his new wife looked worried as she spun the letter over and over in her fingers. She was also the one person who would give Mairi a straight answer, so the next question was directed to her.
“The men seem to be obfuscating today. Lady Clara, can you tell me what’s going on?” She was particularly proud of using the word “obfuscate.” It meant to hide or obscure, and she’d learned it yesterday from the new teacher, Miss Juliet Adams.
“Lilah’s sister is increasing,” Lady Clara said. “And she needs more help than expected.”
What the bollocks was the woman talking about?
Liam brought his wife’s hand up for a gentle kiss. “I think they need more explanation,” he said, adoration filling his expression enough to sicken everyone but Lady Clara, who likely didn’t even notice.
“What? Oh. That’s the London way of saying she’s pregnant.”
Mairi knew what the word meant. She had no idea why it was relevant. Fortunately, Liam had an explanation.
“I believe Lady Diana intended to sponsor you to London society. She knew her condition before, but still planned to help. Unfortunately, she’s a great deal more tired than she expected, and her doctor has declared the strain of a Season too much of a risk.”
Oh damnation, hells bells, and every other curse she could think of. She’d lived around men most of her life, so she knew quite a few. She needed a woman to sponsor her to the Marriage Mart or she’d never catch a husband. “But I won’t be a strain on her,” she said slowly, her gaze hopping back to Lady Clara’s. “We’re attending parties, not working in a forge. Plus, I know some tonics that can help ease the nausea.” She bit her lip. “Is she very delicate?”
“Diana? Goodness, no. She’s hale enough that everyone thought she’d murdered her husband.”
No response to that except to gape.
“Oh,” Lady Clara said when she noticed everyone staring. “She didn’t kill him. His son did. But that’s not important. She and her new husband Lucas are blissfully happy and now are going to have a family.”
“But if she’s not delicate, then she can attend a party—”
“Polite society pretends that pregnancy doesn’t happen. Babies are given to them by storks. It’s a very strange idea.”